


lack of

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [98]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Escaped the Constant AU, Gen, Guns, Implied Relationships, Mental Instability, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, Suicide Attempt, Vent writing that got out of hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27954512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: ...just getting out feelings, I suppose.
Series: DS Extras [98]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Kudos: 20





	lack of

He hadn't thought he'd get his far.

Something inside him wanted to laugh, to burst out and bubble of hysterics, but it died oh so quickly in his throat as Maxwell turned the gun over in his hands.

He's never been a fan of such weaponry. It was loud, obnoxious, a sharp thunder crack and burst of foul burned smells, and then the even more dreadful mess that would be left afterwards. Having to find his living upon the streets, occupying the corners and staging little shows and tricks here and there for a few coins each day, it was not as if he's never seen the aftermath. Hell, a few have been pointed in his direction before, demanding time and money, demanding his word and promises, and he's gotten mugged before as well, barrel pressed to the middle of his spine and dark, empty voice telling him to hand over whatever he had on him.

But, those had been William's problems. The Constant was not much for such a weapon, the quick kill and absurd apathy it dragged along with it. As former Nightmare King, Maxwell had made sure such a destructive thing could never be found atop the Constants many lands.

It was a wonder, then, why Higgsbury had one hidden away in his attic. 

A shotgun, Maxwell thought, a short, possibly sawed off barrel and heavy weight, and only a single bullet left within it. The other, as he had found earlier, was deconstructed, the gunpowder packed away and saved for future experiments. Perhaps it was just here for protective measures, or even was a housewarming gift of sorts, left in the storage boxes hidden away within the dark attic, packed far from the ruins of the former grand portal.

...Most nights, Maxwell dreamed of entering that static magic laden inferno, into the dark crooked talons that would reach out and greet him for his elegant return. They weren't nightmares anymore, even when they woke him up with a choked cry, a whimpering scream grit tight and half silent; here, outside of the Constant, and the former King found himself positively _aching_ for the past.

Well, he had the gun in his hands now, one bullet left and one bullet only. The hike out here had taken an hour or so, hopefully well enough away to not carry an echo.

That...sent a curdled punch into his gut, at the very thought. It was almost evening, early enough for no one to notice his absence.

Well, as if anyone actually would. Ever since entering this cold, dark real world, there had barely been a single word spoken to him, a single passing glance. 

His blood family was gone, died out long ago with poor lonely old Jack, and even with Wendy here the girl had other matters of the mind to tend to, mourning and a life left to live, nothing to do with himself. He has long lost meaning to his last living niece, and with Abigail having finally passed forward, or at the very least dissipated, Wendy has had to step forward with all the help she could get now. There was no need for him to get his cruel hands tangled into such new, hopeful things.

As for the others, well. Life had to continue on living, right?

And, they all had lives, removed as they possibly were. People moved on, moved out and far, far away, leaving the foul memories behind. 

Leaving him, his infected aura of pain and suffering, memories no one wanted to remember, and forgetting all about him like they should. Peace and prosperity to them all, Maxwell wished each and every time he had to raise a hand in farewell, standing stiff and cold atop the porch of the last of those still allowing him to stick around.

He's overstayed his welcome, he knew; Wilson has made it clear enough by now that he had no intention staying put in that ramshackle excuse of a hut anymore than he had to. Big plans in that head of his, big plans and thoughts and ideas, new blossomed hopes and dreams, and Maxwell…

...Well, Maxwell got in the way of things. He's always had, even as William, and butting his way into another's life for so much longer than he should has finally reached its end.

The end of a shotguns barrel, he recognized with a faint hint of darkened humor, and the gun was heavy, solid in his hands, the clear sun darkening to evening as it dipped lower and lower. There was a chill to the air, quiet and calm and cold, but he hardly noticed, barely cared. 

Even as he shivered, shook, Maxwell knew he'd not feel it for long.

The guns barrel was a cold thing, a metal ring pressed firm to his forehead, angled just slightly against his left temple. It made something in his gut shiver, cramp and curdle in horrified exhilaration, and his hands trembled something terrible and fitful, he noticed.

Sucking in another chill huff of air made him shudder, tremble harder at that cold simple ring pressed just so to his temple, hand loose and fingers even looser as he traced the lines and bumps and divots of the gun itself, heavy yet just short enough for him, just the perfect size-

And then Maxwell let his trembling hand down, shoulder twitching as he shuddered in another breath, fought the urge to cough, fought the even worse urge to vomit. His insides twisted, he felt borderline hysterical in the worst of ways, and the gun was such a leaden weight, so damnably heavy in his hands.

The former Nightmare King closed his eyes, forced himself to take measured breaths, forced the air in from his mouth, out through his nose, fingers still idly tracing the wooden grooves of the guns handle, its thick weight and build. 

One bullet, he reminded himself, only one. A last chance, a final chance; a way to right so many of his wrongs. 

Except, not really. Here he was, stealing even more from Higgsbury, from _Wilson,_ after the man had allowed him to stay in his house for who knows how long, after having set simple chores for his time there, the many days passing, lengthening the time they now all spent in the real world, and Maxwell had taken it all without complaint, chest growing even more crowded, suffocating as the anchor weight built up and up and up with each passing _moment-_

How was he righting any wrongs, being out here, doing this?

Selfish, was what he was, so damn dreadfully fucking _selfish,_ and Maxwells gut turned over itself, twisted unpleasantly as his other hand dragged over the guns barrel, worn gloves allowed the catch and odd texture to ingrain into his skin. Who was he kidding?

 _No one_ , he thought, he knew, _and that is for the best._ The quicker he was done with this, the better it would all turn out to be. 

The barrel was still cold, ice cold even, pressed fully to his temple, that softer skin that would lead an open pathway through his skull, through the rotted pathetic _disgusting_ thing that was his brain, his pitiful mind that had meant _nothing in the end-_

-and Charlie hadn't even said goodbye. She hadn't said a single thing to him, not even a passing last glance, and it tightened the lump in his throat, strangled his lungs and chest as the memory waved at the shoreline of his mind, making him so completely and utterly _sick._

She had given her hugs, her last few words to each and every person, and then had passed him by without a single word or look, ignored him completely as she had shakily stepped out of the house, led along by her helpful sister to the nearby automobile Wes had somehow gotten his hands on. 

Not even a last farewell glance out the window as she drove by; Maxwell had stood there on the porch, watched one of the only people in his life that had ever given him the time of day, who may have once even _loved_ him, leave him behind without a single regretful thought.

_...good for her._

His next breath came in a shudder, a shake as the gun twitched in his grip, and his throat was choked and breathing ragged and raw, blinking back the painful, horrid dampness of his eyes-

-his finger was on the trigger, just barely carrassed it even as he shook and trembled, and it _still_ wasn't enough.

Vaguely he thought of the others, only a faint sparse farewell to him as each left to take back their lives once more; Woodie and his hesitant heavy handed pat on the shoulder, silent, long lost and dead axe still strapped to his waist, Wickerbottom with her white lie slipping through her farewell of how she'd like to visit sometime, Wendy at the old womans side solemn and stern and masked eyes hiding everything else, Webber and the tight hug as their only way to speak their emotions before taken along with Willow and Wigfrid, out to find their places in this world. 

They graced him, these brief images, this foul sickness rising within his chest, choking him up with a shuddering gasp of a hiss as Maxwell squeezed shut his eyes, forced his arm still, forced himself still, _do it damn you-_

And then his trembling weak hand fell once more, heavy barrel weighing him down, and Maxwell sucked in a shuddering breath of the chilly evening air, hating it, _hating it all_ , before allowing himself to collapse to his knees.

_Damn him._

...Perhaps he'd just sit out here, alone in the cold, wait for night to fall, wait for something or other to get to him. 

But, this wasn't the Constant; even the chilly air wouldn't be enough to do him in so quickly. That might take a few days, sit here and wait for overexposure to get to his frail, worn out body, too old now, long past whatever his death date had once been. 

It was getting worse, waking up each day, _feeling_ the aches and pains in such unfamiliar ways; his time in the Constant has rolled back his own death too many times to count, and now that he only had this one life to live it was all getting back at him in the worst ways possible. 

Maxwell supposed that, if nature had its way, he may only have a short time left. Five, ten, twenty years; what did it matter, with his intimate experience with the infinite? When would his mortal form stop, when would his mind fail him utterly, when would he finally fall and not be able to get back up again?

Such thoughts brought the queasy darkness up and twisting through his gut again, this deep horror in himself and his reality, and Maxwell hissed out a low, shaky sound through clenched teeth, eyes still closed, still favoring that static grey that his eyelids supplied. 

When he eventually fell within the Constant, They were always there. It never mattered if it was to maim or to aid; the shadows were always, _always_ there.

But, here?

Maxwell shivered, shook, and the gun in his hand was heavy and cold and solid, a force to reckon with, and that giddy trepidation flushed through his nerves once more as he tightened his grip upon it. There was nothing, here in the real world, nothing at all.

When he fell, he wasn't going to be pulled back up again. 

His face twisted, a crooked jarring scowl that turned into a snarl as he yanked the gun back up, ignored the ache in his arm from the weight, ignored the cold and the shivering thread of fears that came from the dangerous contact, that pinpoint line to his skull, and Maxwell-

-didn't want to wait for when he fell. It would be all for the best, to take that last bullet _now_ , that last chance _now._

He can't just let himself parade along with the others and this world now could he? He had no right to it, has never earned nor deserved it in any way shape or form, and his past sins and torments piled atop his shoulders and back and they all screamed at him to _do it-_

The former Nightmare King trembled, silent as his snarl contorted, as his ever gasping breath came up shorter and shorter, as the tightening in his chest choked him up, the deep rotten cold of all that he was getting worse and worse, heavier and heavier the longer he waited. 

How terribly selfish, taking Higgsburys property out to do this. One more thing to add to a debt he never had any hope repaying, just like every other debt he's ever created, and Wilson had been...been too kind, perhaps, letting him stay.

Maxwell knew he should have been thrown out to the wolves, so to speak since the wolves here were skittish creatures less likely to square up against a human, should have been pointed down the road and towards the nearby town and then left, forgotten, alone. He must be such a heavy weight upon the other mans mind, such a torture to handle and live with, and even now Maxwell had dreams, nightmares of all that he has done.

So much blood on his hands, so much nightmare fuel, so much pain. He wakes from them full of mania, hysteria and fear and panic and giddy awful disgusting _joy_ , and even outside of the Constant, outside of the place that had once been his creation, his world, Maxwell still felt that godawful _power_ whenever such memories and dreams came to grace him.

For that, surely this was just enough. Surely his death, out of the way, out of sight, out of mind, surely this will help ease some of that pain and agony and suffering he has ingrained into the world, ease it into a soft ache, ease it into something best forgotten. The others who have already left were leaving it all behind; Charlie hadn't given him a single glance, a single farewell, and he had watched her retreating back, alone and unsteady on that porch, dusk turning to night as time just continued on its uncaring march.

...Wilson had came out then, came out and gently wrapped his hand to Maxwell's arm, even more so gently lead him inside, to the couch, to a cup of bland watery tea, apologies on the lack of supplies, a one sided conversation that dwindled till the other man had sat by his side, quiet well into the deep of midnight.

And then eased the long gone stagnant cold cup from his hands, helped him up in the bloom of aches and pains and crackling joints, and guided Maxwell to bed without a single complaint and only a soft goodnight whispered just so into his hair, soft touch to send him to unrestful sleep. 

Was that all he was anymore? A decrepit old thing, a foul, pathetic memory best left forgotten, and Maxwell's shoulders shuddered, a hiccup of squashed down hissing sound from his throat, from his shaky uneven breaths, almost full out gasps, _one bullet, one chance_ , the cold gun pressed just so to his head, just, just _so_ , all it would take is just the slightest of squeezes and he'd-

 _I'll be gone,_ Maxwell thought, a deep gut wrenching twist inside himself, terrible and awful and in so much achingly tearing _agony._

How selfish, really? The others have already left, and it was only a matter of time, soon maybe, and Wilson will have left him as well. _Finally_ listening to him, apparently, finally making the right choice, and Maxwell's chest curled in on itself, the pitiful rotten thing inside that couldn't be called a heart drained and stuttered and so weak, so pitiful by now. Finally given up on him.

How can he wait, then? How can he make himself continue on, get up each and every day as the aches worsen, as his limbs shake more and more, his back burning from hidden spine pain, his knees slowly weakening and giving out, his entire body nearing its own slow ending eventually? How can he do such a thing, out here, all alone?

 _Better this,_ Maxwell focused thoughts went on, _better this choice._

 _His_ choice, and that acknowledgement sent the shudder of feeling, a shudder of strength, and Maxwell squeezed his eyes shut, hissed in a last breath, jaw tightly clenched and body tense as he finally, finally, _fucking finally_ readied himself-

-and his arm shook, finger on the trigger, just barely brushing over it in slow, small circles, trembling and shaking and everything else in between. 

_Just do it!_

He wheezed, gasps short and fast and uneven, light headed and sick, so damn sick as his hand started to shake.

_God damn it, just do it!_

The barrel was so cold, cold and hard and a solid pinpoint, eyes shut tight and only the burning contact that pressed against his skull, would burst apart him and himself and all that he was, soon, so soon now, end him in a loud explosive finale no one, not even himself, had ever expected-

-the garbled sound that came out of him was almost a laugh, more like a strangled sob, and Maxwell shuddered, gasped in and out for air, and he didn't acknowledge the tears, the weak sobs, the hacking nausea that curdled in his gut and chest and ate away anything and everything and _why-_

_DO IT!_

**"No!"**

Maxwell barely registered that he had been the one to yell, a harsh ripping snarl that almost sounded inhuman in its inner rage, the hatred sodden in that singular word, singular exclamation, but then that was drowned out by the loudest explosion that he has ever been privy to hear.

The ringing in his ears didn't let up when his vision cleared, a bruising pain in his hand and wrist, against his cheek, and Maxwell dizzily, blankly pushed himself up from the ground from where he had toppled over.

The high ringing didn't cease, even when his eyes landed upon the pine tree ahead of him, the blister tearing gash it now had in its trunk. It wasn't a fully mature tree, and he watched, silent and empty and disoriented for those last few moments, as its top swayed, needles falling in a slow shaking sheet to the ground, before the entire thing rocked to one side and crashed down onto the ground.

He didn't hear a single sound from its death, and only a few minutes later did the ringing finally clear, fade as the silent forest and its faint chilly breeze came back to his ears. 

Maxwell sat there, empty smoking gun limp in his lap and hand aching something fierce, a bruise already blossoming across his face from where the handle had smacked him with recoil. 

A minute passed by, as the silence finally broke with the introduction of a distant birds song, something completely unheard of from within the Constant, something he's never had the chance to hear ever before.

A ragged, raw gasp of cold air fluttered through him, a deep inhale, a deeper, stuttered exhale, shuddering through his weak chest. The tree didn't move, cracked in half, needles still green and branches still raised to the sky.

Still oh so very, very much dead, or at least very soon it would be. 

Maxwell sucked in another shivering breath, that unfamiliar bird song in his ears and empty hollow heavy gun in his lap-

-and he started to truly, completely and utterly, cry, for the first time in a long, long time.

**Author's Note:**

> ...just getting out feelings, I suppose.


End file.
